by Silent Draco
Sam walked up to the guards at the heavy door of the Lore-Smith forges and Second Armory. He bowed to the curious guards, and displayed the small plaque of Tree and Fountain. “Enter, Young Ones. The High Lord awaits you within.” One guard opened the heavy, steel-lined doors, while another rang a heavy bell once, and a silvery lighter bell three times in succession. “It is tradition over time,” they explained. “When the door is closed, the outer chambers are sealed off from speech and thought. The sound of the bells carries into the outer chambers and heat vestibule, so those within can be informed of visitors, and their number.” They found Lord Ecthelion and Findalas, one of the principal Lore-Masters, waiting in the Records Chamber.
“So, you are the Pheriainnath, of whom I have heard. Well … you are a well-formed, but small folk. I imagine you find it quite easy to conceal yourselves in almost any field, woods, or forest. What are your preferred weapons? Slings and then casting-sticks, I should imagine.” Lord Echthelion shook his head slightly; the light in his eyes conveyed the message: Findalas was a pre-eminent Master of shaping and making metals, but his focus made it difficult for him to converse with other Eldar. Bilbo’s memories flew back to Dudworth Birchfeller, who had built the columns and arch-work for the new storage halls on Bag End’s lower level. He was a master with stone of any type, and built in the archways and supports nearly as fast as other hobbits could excavate clay and stone. He had been nearly mute, allowing his apprentices to speak for him, for the stone called so intently. Bilbo’s smile faded; he recalled that was from 1392 S.R., and the gruff old mason was now long deceased.
“What you request is straightforward, My Lord,” said Findalas. “Given your exploits, your side-blade may accomplish deeds of no less renown than your main blade. There is no similar name in use or already given, so Argent Talon may …” “Excuse me, Master?” asked Sam. Findalas looked down and switched sternly to Sindarin, “White Claw, you would call him, will be an excellent companion to Shadow-Breaker.” Pointedly switching subjects, Findalas inquired about Sting. Sam removed his sword belt and placed it gently upon the stone-topped table, giving Findalas permission to draw the blade for examination. “The metalwork and design are exquisite, My Lord. Turgon’s smiths – we regret that many sleep yet, but mourn most for those overborne and enthralled by the Great Enemy. Were …” he glanced sidelong at the Halflings, and changed his next words to “… any questions remaining about its masters?” “No, Master,” continued Echthelion. “The blades were the spoils of fair Gondolin, but the Great Enemy’s minions would feel the burning wrath and pain of even sheathed blades. They lay in shadows for a long Age and more. Hidden in a trove, lost in hills, the blades re-emerged in time to become battle-spoils for Mithrandir, a party of Dwarves, and a most unusual Halfling.”
Nodding, Findalas asked the Halflings of how the blade acquired a name, and the battle honors they could describe. Bilbo finished with “… and having skewered that nasty spider, I felt that the blade deserved a name. Stingseemed a good choice, for I had stung that nasty, cursing spider before it could do the same to me. And then that nest of wicked beasts, arguing about which of my companions to eat first …” Both Eldar seemed to peer through him. “Well, masters, it didn’t talk to me as such, but it seemed I could understand or get the gist of their speech.” Ecthelion cut off further questions: “Master Findalas, this concerns artefacts of which we should not speak.”
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Instead, Frodo and Sam were asked about Cirith Ungol. Frodo soon turned pale green and glanced away, leaving Sam to describe the duel and his opponent. Both Eldar trembled, one in outrage and one in horror. “May it be the last of that foul one’s spawn, we can hope,” breathed Findalas. “Gravely wounded, the beast was forced to flee in terror, by this blade and a star-glass, you say?” Sam nodded, slowly. “Aye, m’lord, ‘twas Her Ladyship’s gift to Mr. Frodo, wonderful fair, filled with the light of the Star of Earendil.” Findalas rose from his seat and bowed; he then wrote in a quick but fair script in the open book, and politely asked first Ecthelion and then the Halflings to inscribe their names, or to make their symbol or mark on the page. “The requests are in order, and confirmed,” he added, impressing his Master’s ring onto the page, “And we shall proceed to the forges. Please put the blades in this casket, and I will provide them to the smith.”
They halted in the flame warder, where Findalas directed them to put on protective garments and helms. “The heat- and lore-forges are highly dangerous places, and visitors are subject to great perils unless shielded. The orders we confirmed are temporarily inscribed within this sheet of adamant. Some subtle work is of such delicacy that a stray word or thought may destroy the object and release a flare of power. This is why our works are situated in a far portion of the Citadel, where an emergency can be channeled out over the Sea. Young Masters, while you are required for the Naming, I must have your oath that you shall not speak or sing, unless directly required to do so, or later to discuss what occurred here. Unexpected actions at a remove may slag down a forge.” Findalas grew in stature and authority as they approached his place of mastery. “Lord Echthelion, if you will accompany me first?”
The hobbits in their turn entered (when called) through an insulator-room; the doors were layers of adamant, steel, and a marvelous rock which trapped heat like wool. Such was the leveraging that one door remained sealed while the other was open. In this way, the heat and lore were contained, preventing dangerous surges from emerging.
Findalas stayed them inside the forge area. “Young Ones, you are honored to be allowed entry to the Lore-Forges. Perhaps one or two others have visited over time. This is the heart of our creative works. Only one Forge is greater, but alas, it waits quiet and cool, yearning for the eye and hand of its Master to return. From here, follow my hand commands exactly. Master Samwise, there is one other need, which I only ask. As part of the Naming, the blade’s master imbues it with some of his essence, or life-force, that his weapon may better anticipate his intentions.” Holding out a strip of plain, white broadcloth, Findalas asked: “I know not of how mortal races and their life force proceed; I am wary, for what is usual among the Eldar may tax your body and spirit severely, or may slay you untimely, leaving but a wraith. What I ask now, is if you will cut your hand with Sting, then staunch the bleeding with this cloth. Both the blooded blade and that gathered on fine, clean cloth will be used in the stead of other methods. Sting will gain some sense of your essence and blood lineage, and formally change alliance and support to you and yours.”
Sam swallowed twice, looking at Findalas, but only said “Aye” in a low voice. Holding the blade in his right hand, Sam gently cut across the heel of his left thumb. As blood gently welled upward, Findalas deftly wound cloth around the injury and held it for several minutes. Taking the cloth away, he laid it in the casket next to Sting, and applied a small healing-plaster to Sam’s left thumb. He bowed in honor, and preceded them with the casket.
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Find Previous Chapters Here:
Chapter 11 – Part 4 Chapter 11 – Part 3
Chapter 11 – Part 2 Chapter 11 – Part 1
Chapter 10 – Part 2 Chapter 10 – Part 1
Chapter 9 – Part 2 Chapter 9 – Part 1
Chapter 8 – Part 2 Chapter 8 – Part 1
Chapter 7 – Part 2 Chapter 7 – Part 1
Chapter 6 – Part 2 Chapter 6 – Part 1
Chapter 5 – Part 4 Chapter 5 – Part 3
Chapter 5 – Part 2 Chapter 5 – Part 1
Chapter 4 – Part 2 Chapter 4 – Part 1
Chapter 3 – Part 2 Chapter 3 – Part 1
Chapter 2 – Part 3 Chapter 2 – Part 2
Chapter 2 – Part 1 Chapter 1